


Hell Bound

by Trubie74



Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Behavior, Post-Movie(s), Stockholm Syndrome, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-18 04:56:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5899093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trubie74/pseuds/Trubie74
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Greta hadn't run away from Brahms at the end of the movie? What if she'd stayed behind after he'd grabbed Malcolm?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own The Boy (2016) or any of it's characters.  
> Fair warning, I'm not sure how often I'll be able to update so please bear with me. :)

Every instinct she had was screaming for her to run, to flee off into the woods and never look back. But the door was jammed, probably rusted into place after years of disuse. Spinning around, she knew that this was her chance, their attacker was distracted and there was a slight opening to his left... She should rush past them, go find somebody, get help for Malcolm...

But she couldn’t.

Greta found herself frozen in place, watching transfixed as Brahms slammed Malcolm down, knocking him out cold. Time seemed to hold still as she crouched there in the tunnel. She wasn’t even sure she was breathing.

***    *    ***

For someone who had just murdered a man and then assaulted another in the span of mere minutes, Brahms seemed unnervingly calm. He let go of Malcolm, pausing to make sure his victim wouldn’t get back up. The house was completely quiet except for her harsh breathing. Suddenly his head snapped up and Greta found herself staring deeply into a pair of cold, blue eyes. Neither moved for a moment, each simply observing the other. The seconds ticked away, seeming to stretch on for a lifetime.

Slowly, as if he were trying not to spook her, Brahms inched forward until his hulking frame filled the entrance to her hiding place. Even crouched down he was easily twice her size.

Ten feet was all that stood between them. Tilting his head almost curiously, he called out, “Greta?”

His voice was that of a child, light and playful. But his eyes, still locked on to hers, told a different story.

Her legs were beginning to cramp up.

Glancing hesitantly down at Malcolm's still frame, she shifted into a sitting position. He tracked her every movement but made no move to come closer. There was no point in trying to run now, she had nowhere to go… and she wasn’t entirely sure she want to. Swallowing down her nerves she met his eyes again.

“Brahms…”

“Please don’t be scared Greta,” still in that childlike voice, “don’t run away fro-”

“Stop it.” Her voice cracked through the air like a whip.

Blinking at her in confusion, he came a little closer.

Seven feet between them now. She wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging herself tightly.

There was that damn head tilt again.

“Stop what Greta?” he asked, giggling as if she’d just told a funny joke. Perhaps to him, she had. Perhaps to him, this had all been one big joke and this, here and now, was the punchline.

“Stop talking like a child Brahms. We both know that you’re not.” Her tone was scathing but her eyes held a pleading look in them, almost frantic. Greta had a very delicate grip on herself in that moment, and if he kept speaking to her like that, she might just lose her mind.

It was like flipping a switch.

His eyes narrowed, suddenly twice as cold, twice as calculating.

The very air in the room seemed to shift as his entire being took on a predatory nature. She didn’t flinch, but it was a near thing.

“Is this better Greta? Is this what you’d prefer?” His voice had dropped considerably, becoming rough and deep.

There he was, she thought as she stared into dark eyes. There was Brahms.

“Yes.”

“Good.” and that was that. He made as if to move even closer to her but paused as a low groan carried from behind him.

Malcolm was waking up.

Turning, Brahms straighten to his full height, stalking back over to where he’d left the poor man. Greta lurched forward, suddenly freed from her paralysis. “Don’t hurt him!” she gasped, reaching out toward them both. She stopped as Brahms twisted to stare at her. Without a word he turned back, leaning down to heave Malcolm up and over his shoulder. Ignoring her shaking form, he strode off down the hall and out of sight, her only friend in tow.

Greta was alone.

***    *    ***

For a few minutes she did nothing, couldn’t even fathom doing anything more than sitting there. That had really happened. Brahms was alive. He’d murdered her ex-boyfriend and had just carried off her second chance at happiness, at a normal life. She didn’t love Malcolm no, but she could have. He was so sweet to her, it would have been easy...

She was in a house with a murderer masquerading as a dead boy. It was a struggle to wrap her mind around these things, after all, only yesterday she’d been almost happy.

Banishing these thoughts from her head, Greta heaved herself to her feet. Feeling along the wall, she slowly made her way down the hall. She knew what she was going to see before she turned the corner. It was still a bit of a shock.

The blood had finally stopped flowing from Cole’s face but it didn’t make the sight any less gruesome. Brahms had bashed his head in. If she dared to look any harder, she could probably see chunks of brain amid the shattered skull. Shaking her head violently, she jerked away, across the room and into the bathroom.

Heaving, she threw up everything she had and then some.

Wiping her mouth on an errant towel, Greta thought about her options.

There weren’t many.

She could either leave, dooming Malcolm to whatever fate Brahms had in store for him or she could stay and try to help. That was assuming Brahms hadn’t killed him yet… No, if Brahms planned to kill him, he’d have done it than and there. Malcolm was alive. Somewhere in this terrible house, her friend was alive.

There was no question.

She was going to have to stay.

Although she hated to admit it, would never dare say it out loud, a small, twisted part of herself wanted to stay for Brahms. She felt connected to him, to this place. She’d felt it before she’d learned the truth, when she had told Malcolm about her past and the responsibility she felt for this family. Yeah, this wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind but it was still there, under her skin, that connection.

She was supposed to be here.

***    *    ***

Brahms found her sitting in the kitchen not long after. He didn’t say a word to her, merely moved passed to the sink so he could wash the blood from his hands. She hated it, the easy confidence he seemed to have towards her. Like he just knew she wasn’t going to run, that she wasn’t a threat anymore. It made her angry, but worse, it made her wonder why he was so right.

She glanced at the clock. It was still early.

Greta didn’t look up when he came to stand at her elbow. Nor did she fight him when he took her by the arm, pulling her from her seat and toward the parlor. His grip on her was like iron, she couldn’t have pulled away if she’d tried. And she wouldn’t. Not until she was sure Malcolm was beyond help. Until then, she would just go along with whatever Brahms wanted. She would stay alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please Review! Questions, comments and constructive criticism are always welcome! Thanks for reading!  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

Greta stood there rather stiffly and watched as Brahms perused the shelves. He was looking for something specific, fingers dancing randomly across the spine of each book and yet never settling on any particular one. The parlor was lit by little more than a small lamp near the sofa, casting the room in a dull glow.

She could smell Cole.

The scent was subtle, but it was there, permeating the house with its stench. She could practically taste the gore lying down the hall, or maybe that was just her imagination getting the better of her. Greta felt sick, but there was nothing left in her stomach to give. So she stood there, waiting.

Humming to himself in satisfaction, Brahms plucked a volume from the shelf. The book was a deep purple, and Greta quickly recognized it as the one she’d been reading to the doll the week before. Mrs. Heelshire had said it was one of his favorites…

Pausing by the record player, he put on a low tune. Greta had never heard this one, it differed greatly from Brahms’ usual selection. He tended more for dramatic flare. No, this sound was soft, a woman distantly singing along to her own rhythm. There were no words to it, just feeling. As her voice crested hauntingly around them, Brahms approached the couch. Brushing past Greta, he took his time settling into the seat, almost lounging against the arm. Cold eyes regarded her expectantly as he held out the book.

Greta would have laughed out loud at the absurdity of it all if she’d had any humor left. Instead she slipped forward, hands wringing fretfully at each other as she made to sit next to him. If he wanted her to read, than she would read. Anything to keep him calm, to keep him happy.

She’d barely moved to sit before his arm shot out, a steel band around her waist as he hauled her to him. Greta let out a gasp as she suddenly found herself engulfed by him, firmly planted in his lap. His breath blew hot against her neck as he brought his head down to nuzzle behind her ear. His arms remained a cage, trapping her in his embrace. Shivering for all the wrong reasons, Greta did her best to accept the situation. Taking a mental step back, she settled herself down and cracked the book open. She read to him for what felt like hours, voice never wavering despite how she really felt.

Greta started to become almost comfortable as she submerged herself in the story, even managing to ignore the body behind her in favor of enjoying the warmth it provided.

Mid-sentence, Greta let loose a small squeak and went very still. Brahms had used her distraction to his advantage, slipping his hand under the bottom of her shirt. Large hand gripping high on her hip, she felt it like a brand. He squeezed meaningfully and she took the hint, swallowing down any protests she might have made. Voice wavering now as she continued on with the story, Greta forced herself to ignore the feeling of his fingers as they kneaded her side. His other hand remained locked on her thigh, holding her in place. Voice growing steadier with each sentence, Greta was just starting to lose herself to the book once again when one of Brahms’ fingers suddenly deviated from it’s course, slipping up under her bra to skim along the bottom of her breast.

Greta jerked forward and he let her off the couch, book dropping forgotten to the carpet as she spun wildly to face him.

“It’s time for bed Brahms,” she gestured faintly in the direction of the clock on the mantle, “can’t you see how late it’s getting? We sho- should both go to bed." she stuttered.

Eyes darkly amused through his mask, he hefted himself to his feet. Bending, he retrieved the book and placed it by the lamp.

“If you _insist_.”

Greta trailed along a few feet behind him as he made his way through the house, collecting a sheet from the closet as he passed by. Coming to a stop by Cole, he began the unsettling process of wrapping the corpse.

“Go to bed Greta.” he commanded without looking up from his work. Blood was already starting to stain it’s way through the white cloth.

She wasted no time turning and stumbling up the steps to the second floor, his laughter echoing harshly off the walls behind her.

*    *    * 

He was burying Cole out in the garden.

The sound of a shovel working through dirt beat steadily beneath her window. Greta didn’t dare to look. Instead she lay huddled under her covers, eyes squeezed shut and hands over her ears. As she tried valiantly to find some place of inner peace where that toe curling noise couldn’t reach her, Greta eventually slipped unwillingly into a fitful sleep.

She dreamed of rats slitting their own throats and writing messages for her on the walls in each other’s blood. She dreamed that they screeched as they skittered inside the walls, chasing her as she fled from room to room and always, just out of the corner of her eye, no matter where she went, a large shadow loomed, suffocating her.

‘ **There’s no way out** ’, dripped red from the walls.

The rats converged, clamoring at her feet as they swarmed her.

“ _Mine now_...” the shadow whispered in her ear.

*    *    * 

Greta woke with a start.

The sun filtered in through her window, brightening the room. The door was still locked, just as she’d left it. The panel that opened into the wall remained blocked by her dresser, just as she’d hoped it would. Stretching, Greta groaned as she felt her joints pop. Running her fingers agitatedly back through her hair, she threw on some clothes. She didn’t feel rested in the slightest.

The house was quiet as she peeked out the door, taking in the deserted hallway. Moving silently on socked feet, Greta inched her way along the carpet. With the lack of sound and the sunshine brightening the place, it was almost easy to pretend that last night had all been her imagination. As she passed his room, she half expected to see Brahms the doll lying atop his bed, waiting for her to come and start their routine.

He wasn’t.

Swallowing down the strange sense of foreboding she was carrying, Greta went downstairs and entered the kitchen. Yes, her last meal had been only yesterday but it felt like it had been an eternity since she’d eaten. Stomach growling viciously, she straightened her back and set about making eggs and toast.

She was starving. If Brahms had plans for her today than he could damn well wait until she was finished eating.

As she folded her omelet in half, mouth watering with the smell it gave off as it sizzled, she heard a hoarse shout from the vent below the window.

Malcolm.

After a few minutes the shouting cut off abruptly, leaving her alone once again with the sound of her food frying away in it’s pan.

Paler than she’d been a moment ago, Greta ignored the worry in her gut and continued on with her cooking.

It was going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please Review! Questions, comments and constructive criticism are always welcome! Thanks for reading!  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the revised version of Chapter 3. If anyone has any questions about what was changed, feel free to ask! Chapter 4 should be revised and up soon!

As soon as her meal was finished, Greta went off to explore the house as quietly as humanly possible.

Brahms had failed to show for breakfast and if his attention was focused somewhere else, the last thing she wanted to do was draw it back to her. Greta took a steadying breath. This was her chance. As long as Brahms left her unattended, she could begin her search for Malcolm.

She knew he was somewhere in the house, hearing him from the kitchen could attest to that, but where?

The majority of the rooms in the house had locks on them yes, but none of them were really strong enough to hold a full grown man. The wood was too thin. He’d be able to break through it. That is, unless he’d been restrained. Knowing what little she did about Brahms, it was likely.

There were his injuries to consider as well. She had been so distracted, Greta hadn’t really gotten a good look at him. It had all seemed so trivial at the time... Hopefully he wasn’t worse off than she'd originally thought. She held back a shiver as memories of Malcolm’s head being slammed brutally against the wood flooring filled her vision. He’d been hit so hard…

No. She shook her head, the memories were still too fresh.

She couldn’t think about that now. She had to focus.

Greta opened her mouth to call out for him... but hesitated. She was trying _not_ to attract Brahms. The last thing she should be doing was yelling for another man in his home. She forced out a sharp breath of frustration, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. She was going to have to search the entire house one room at a time, and quietly.

*    *    *

Deciding to start with the attic (knowing full well how easy it was to become trapped in there), Greta checked one room after another. She didn’t dare turn any of the lights on for fear of detection, so she worked solely by the limited light from the windows.

Which there really wasn’t much of.

Brahms had gone around and closed all the shutters and curtains while she was still sleeping, blocking out the world from within. That meant he was moving freely around the house now, not just through the walls like before. The only room still open to the outside was her's, a small comfort.

It was strange, tip-toeing her way around the place she’d only just started to call home. Everything within the walls felt invaded now, like something poisonous had slipped inside and cast shadows everywhere. It made her feel hollow and hard to breathe, like she couldn’t get any air in her chest.

Greta found herself continuously looking over her shoulder while she searched, half expecting the rats from her dream to come scurrying after her, lest she turn her head. She kept telling herself it was just paranoia, but she knew better. It wasn’t the rats she was afraid of.

As the day went by, the little bit of light available grew fainter.

So did her hope of finding Malcolm.

Greta was ready to call it quits.

She’d checked every nook and cranny she could possibly think of. Sinking down against the nearest wall, she leaned back with a tired sigh. The hallway was growing dark, it would be harder to see soon. She should head downstairs, have dinner and then barricade herself back in her room for the night.

While she still had the chance. She snorted. Brahms had left her alone for this long, she doubted he would for much more.

*    *    *

Greta was shuffling past the Heelshire family portrait when she heard him. The sudden onslaught of sound was a shock after such a long day of tense silence. Holding perfectly still for a moment, hands over her mouth in case she so much as breathed too loudly, Greta waited.

There it was again.

Diving toward the nearest vent, which happened to be a rather small one underneath a side table, Greta strained her ears to listen.

Malcolm was rambling to himself, stringing together a garbled mess of words with no real intent. He sounded far away. Worse, he sounded a mess.

“blind, god must be blind…”

“can’t do this, can’t keep me like this…”, a little hazy.

“know you can hear me… watching, you’re always watching…”

“hurts, fuck it hurts…”, voice growing fainter now.

Greta couldn’t stand it. Pressing her mouth against the grate she hissed _“Malcolm! Malcolm can you hear me?”_

He didn’t respond, just continued to mumble to himself.

Terrified that a certain someone was going to overhear them, she raised her voice a bit. **_“Malcolm!”_ **

Still nothing. He sounded delirious.

It must be the head wound, she realized. It had been bleeding steadily last she’d seen him and there was no way to know how severe the damage truly was.

Malcolm’s voice petered out into silence, startling Greta out of her thoughts. **_“Wait! Come back! Where are you?! Malcolm please!!”_ **

But it was too late, her friend, wherever he was, had gone.

*    *    *

Greta sat back on her haunches with a groan. She had to find him, and soon. From the way he had sounded, she knew he wouldn’t last long, not without her help.

Centering herself and beating back the nerves threatening to take over, she tried to think everything out logically.

Malcolms’ voice had come in more clearly when she’d heard him through the vent downstairs, so he was definitely somewhere below the second floor. But where? Greta went swiftly down the steps, all thoughts of being quiet forgotten as she searched frantically for her friend.

She went over the first floor three times and found nothing.

This didn’t make any sense! He definitely wasn’t on either the first or second floor and he most certainly wasn’t in the attic. There was no way he was in Brahms’ hideaway because that was up at the top of the house as well.  

It killed her to admit it, but Greta was at a loss here.

*    *    *

Greta sat in the foyer, staring despairingly out into space.

She’d been at it for hours with no luck. There was quite literally nowhere else left in the house that hadn’t been checked. It felt almost like she was looking at Malcolm through one of those two way mirrors. She could hear him, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see him. Greta imagined herself banging wildly against the mirror, screaming into the void with no response. It was a pretty accurate representation of her time here so far. Twenty-four hours since Cole had died and she hadn’t managed to do a damn thing to help their situation.

The sound of a floorboard creaking nearby startled her from her reverie. Hopping to her feet, Greta peeked around the corner.

She watched as Brahms emerged from one of his compartments in the wall, ducking to avoid hitting his head. Once out, he paused to stretch his arms above his head, flexing his muscles and groaning in relief. Greta found herself almost mesmerized as she took in his fierce form.

She unconsciously licked her lips at the sight of him.

Despite his considerable frame, there was something lean and predatory about him. She knew his looks could be deceiving, he was much faster than he appeared.

Greta wondered what he looked like under that old mask. She’d only seen his eyes a few times but the memory of their cold, intense stare had been chiseled into her soul. His face on the other hand, she knew next to nothing about.

Errantly, she thought that without that bizarre mask of his and the beard, Brahms was probably quite the looker.

She had the sudden urge to move forward and pull the mask from his face, to see beneath his dark exterior. Surprised at her sudden interest in her captor, Greta shrank back.

What was she doing?

Her friend was trapped somewhere in this hell hole, suffering alone, and here she was ogling their tormenter! But was she ogling? Greta wasn’t attracted to Brahms, at least… she didn’t think she was. There was just something about him. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. They just had this… connection. It was unsettling.

The sound of tires suddenly coming up the drive hit Greta like a bucket of ice water. She stumbled toward the front of the house, knocking the curtains aside in her haste to see.

Someone was coming.

Looking back, Greta wasn’t sure what she’d have done. Perhaps she’d have run outside, waving her arms wildly and begged them to help her. Perhaps not.

There was no way to know.

Greta never got the chance.

Panic flooded her veins as Brahms’ strong arms locked around her from behind, lifting her off her feet as if she weighed nothing. Thinking he meant to hurt her, Greta shrieked, thrashing wildly, kicking her feet into his legs and beating anywhere she could reach with her fists.

Brahms wasn’t deterred in the slightest. Clapping a hand over her mouth, he hauled her back away from the windows with ease. Without thinking, Greta bit down hard on his palm, digging her teeth in tender flesh. He dropped her with a muttered curse, clutching his hand to his chest. Greta shoved to her feet and whirled, fearful. He surveyed her with narrowed eyes.

“Come here Greta.”

She didn’t budge. If anything, she started to inch backward.

He opened his mouth behind the mask, but didn’t speak right away, considering. “Please Greta. I don’t want to hurt you.” He took a step toward her, “Don’t make me.”  

Greta’s heart was pounding out a frantic beat in her chest as adrenaline continued to pump through her veins.

She had a decision to make. She could try to make a run for the door, but there was no guarantee she’d reach it before Brahms reached her. And there would be punishment if she tried to escape. Of that, she had no doubt. Brahms would not forgive such an open act of defiance.

Or she could go to him. The very idea of it was ludicrous. He said he didn’t want to hurt her, but could she truly believe that? He was capable of great acts of violence, she’d seen it first hand… But never toward her. Sure, he’d chased her and terrified her and he had no qualms about keeping his hands to himself. But not once in all the time she had been at the Heelshire house had Brahms ever tried to harm her. Hell, the man had even made her a sandwich so she’d spend time with him.

Realization hit Greta like a ton of bricks. Brahms was lonely. In his own twisted and deranged way, he just wanted company. She could understand that. She could work with that. It gave her an edge.

Swallowing back her reservations, and her sanity as far as she was concerned, Greta shuffled forward.

Brahms held completely still, his entire being focused on her as she drew toward him.

It took Greta less than five seconds to come to a stop before him. Whoever was outside still hadn’t even finished making it up the drive.

She stared straight ahead at his chest, not daring to meet his eyes. She didn’t want to see what she’d find in them, not right than anyway.

“Okay.” she whispered.

Brahms didn’t hesitate, reaching out, he gripped her arm tightly and pulled her over to the section of paneling below the staircase. “Good girl.” he muttered and pushed against the panel with his elbow. It swung open with a soft click, another one of his secret passages.

At first, Greta thought he meant to come with her, but as he swung her around and shoved her forward into the dark, she realized that wasn’t the case.

She tumbled forward as he released her, falling down onto a landing she couldn’t see as she hit the floor.

“Not to worry my dear Greta,” he called, outlined by the dim light of the foyer, “I’ll be back soon. But first, I must see to our guests.” She couldn’t see it, but she was sure there was a wicked smile under his mask as he shut the panel.

With that, he left her in darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally finished chapter 4! So sorry for the wait, this was a lot harder to revise than I had originally planned. It became so frustrating that I basically just shoved it aside in favor of other projects. I'm glad I finally got this over with, I can't wait to move on from here!

Greta pushed herself up into a sitting position with a groan.

Every hair on her body was standing on end as she strained her eyes, trying in vain to see where Brahms had hidden her. Hesitantly, she swung her arms out in a wide arc, feeling the walls closed in around her. Was she in some sort of closet? Whatever it was, it wasn’t very large. She could reach the walls on either side of herself with just her elbows.

Greta crawled her way forward, feeling around until her hands connected with the panel. Pushing up onto her knees, she pressed her palms flat against the wood, trying to leverage it open. The old wall creaked ominously, but held firm. There was no latch.

Not a single indent, switch, or mechanism of any kind to indicate how to open the damn door. There was complete silence coming from the other side, Brahms had probably gone out to “deal” with whatever poor townsfolk had been unfortunate enough to come calling. The longer the panel refused to budge, the more alarmed Greta became.

_She couldn’t see._

It was like being engulfed by _nothing_. Logically, she knew the walls were right there, within reach and she knew exactly where in the house she was. She was in a cupboard under the stairs.

‘Just like Harry Potter’ she thought a little hysterically. Consumed with an illogical fear of the unknown, of being enclosed and alone, Greta was on the edge of hyperventilating.

_She needed out. Now._

Shoving up and away from the wall, she meant to stand, maybe get a better grip on the panel, force it open somehow. Instead, as she stumbled back, the floor quite suddenly disappeared from beneath her feet.

Greta was in free fall.

***    *    ***

When she awoke, it was to a chill that bit into her bones. The air around her was dank in a way that spoke of being long underground. Rubbing her arms to try and keep what little warmth she had left, Greta kicked out her foot in exploration. When it connected with something solid, she rolled over onto her stomach, meaning to try and get up. That movement ceased when pain lanced through her.

Her whole body felt like a bruise.

Dragging her hands back, she gently ran them over herself, pushing and prodding to see if anything was broken. Inspection of her torso quickly lead to a startled gasp of pain. She had definitely cracked a rib or two. There was a decently sized lump forming on the back of her head as well. Just her luck.

Much slower this time, painstakingly slow, Greta got to her feet. Shoulders hunched and arms wrapped tightly around her midriff, she shuffled blindly forward. She didn’t stop until her foot connected with something hard and square.

Stairs. She had fallen down a flight of stairs.

Greta carefully felt around for a light switch, sighing in relief when the fingers of her left hand came into contact with aged plastic. Her relief was short lived when flipping the switch, unsurprisingly, boasted no improvement.

She was trapped in the dark.

Yes, it was a “bigger” dark, but it was still _the dark._

She frantically flipped the switch a few more times, vainly hoping that the lights would magically come on and give her a little reprieve from the hell she’d found herself in.

But life doesn’t work like that.

***    *    ***

Greta was in the cellar.

That was the only word she could think of to describe it. No basement in a home as pristine as this one would be so murky. The place had a thick layer of gloom resting over it, increasing the darkness around her tenfold. Not to mention the temperature, which was definitely far below comfortable living arrangements.

There wasn’t supposed to be a cellar.

The Heelshire’s had certainly never mentioned one during their tour of the house. Then again, there was _a lot_ the Heelshire’s hadn’t mentioned, so she really shouldn’t have been all that surprised.

It took a little over an hour for Greta to give up any hope of exploring her new surroundings. Bits and pieces of things long forgotten littered the floor here and there, tripping her when she tried. A short, hesitant shout of “hello?” had simply echoed mockingly back at her.

While crouched low on the stairs, Greta began to feel a little too calm. She was on the verge of something, she wasn’t sure quite what just yet, but it wasn’t good. Brahms needed to come back, she _needed him_ _to come back._

***     *    ***

The bruising she’d picked up from her fall had really blossomed across her ribs, shoulder and leg and knowing her complexion, she was probably looking a deep plum color right about now.

The pacing had started about an hour ago.

Nothing too quick, just a slow shuffle back and forth. It was the only way Greta could keep herself from focusing on the all encompassing blackness around her. It was freezing down here. Sometimes she was convinced she could see her breath. Others, she was sure it was just her mind playing tricks on her in the dark. On her tenth pass along what she’d come to refer to as ‘her wall’, Greta had started to hum. Nothing specific, just an old tune she vaguely remembered her mother favoring when she was little. It was comforting, in a way. Her mother had never liked being shut away either.

By her nineteenth pass, the shaking had started. Beginning in her limbs and making it’s way through her chest, Greta was trembling. It was on her thirtieth turn by the stairs when a clear groan erupted from somewhere across the room. Halting mid step, she didn’t even dare to breath.

There it was again!

Something was alive out there, beyond the stone and rot.

Taking a risk, Greta threw herself forward, tripping blindly across the room until she reached the far wall.

Dropping to her knees with a wince for the ache it caused, Greta pressed herself flush against the wall and listened.

“...motherfucker that hurts…”

Positively beaming with excitement because that was _Malcolm_ and he was _right there,_ Greta beat her hand against the wall.

“Malcolm!”

There was a slight pause, then, almost hesitantly, “Greta?”

She wanted to weep with joy at the way his voice grumbled her name. Never mind the fact that he sounded dry and hoarse from shouting and disuse. He was not only conscious, but coherent and that was more than she could ask for.

“ _Oh thank God!_ Malcolm you’re okay! I was starting to think I’d never find you! How’s your head?”

He didn’t answer right away, “Hurts, I’ve been bleeding a lot. Got my t-shirt pressed up against it. Not too big, just a nice sized gash I think...gonna need stitches... What the fuck happened Greta?”

She blinked in confusion, “You don’t remember?”

“It’s all a bit fuzzy. I remember hitting the ground really hard and then nothing. I think I went in and out for a bit there, but I’m not really sure.”

Greta’s throat felt tight as she responded, “Do you remember Brahms coming out of the wall?”

“Yeah? And we ran. At least, I think we did. How far did we get?”

“Well,” she swallowed, “He sort of slammed your head into the floor a couple of times. Malcolm we never made it out, he caught us. We’re his prisoners.”

Now that she had someone to talk to about all this, the emotions started to flow a lot more freely. Tears welled up in her eyes and she wiped them away quickly.

“You said you couldn’t see?” She asked, trying to get a handle on the situation.

“It’s black as pitch in here, I can’t see a damn thing.”

“Describe what you can to me.” Maybe he was in another section of the cellar? There were plenty of secret doors she hadn’t discovered yet, Brahms had certainly taught her that.

“ _Ow damnit_!”

“Malcolm?!” she called worriedly.

“Sorry, sorry, head’s a bit tender. Umm... okay hang on. It’s not big enough to be a room, small and uh narrow… I think… I think I’m inside a wall? I don’t know Greta, It’s not very wide, pretty cramped.”

He was inside the wall? She knew the rest of the house was hollow but it made no sense for the cellar walls to be as well.

“Try to stand, see if you can walk around at all.” Did it go all the way around the basement?

“ _Woah boy_ … yeah standing is... a bad idea. I’m feelin a little woozy. I can though. Stand that is. I’ve got maybe a couple feet to move around in here. It doesn’t go along the whole wall. Greta where the hell are you?”

“I’m in the cellar,” she called, “You must be in some sort of hollowed out space in the wall. That’s why I couldn’t find you earlier! I kept hearing you through the vents. I bet you that you can only be reached by one of Brahms’ passages in the walls.”

She opened her mouth to say more and almost missed when the panel to the basement stairs opened with a hiss behind her. Eyes going wide she whispered, “Brahms is coming! I promise I’ll come find you but you have to stay quiet! I’ll be back Malcolm don’t worry!” Greta shoved herself back from the wall and stood on shaky feet. A single square of light illuminated a small portion of the room.

His feet hit heavy on each step as he came down the stairs.


	5. Chapter 5

His porcelain face cast an eerie reflection across the haze of the cellar. The way the dim light struck his cheeks gave him a gaunt look, almost sallow. She couldn’t see it behind the mask, but as he came to stand on the bottom step, Greta _just_ _knew_ he was smiling.

“Oh Greta, my Greta…” he breathed, voice rising in pitch on the tail end of her name. “I have quite the little surprise for you…” his chest rumbled silently with laughter. He turned away, confident that she would comply. _“Come play with me Greta…”_ That damned childlike mockery echoed back to her as he ascended the stairs.

Swallowing down her anxiety and giving the wall behind one last quick press with her hand, Greta straightened her shoulders and strode forward with new resolve.

She had found Malcolm.

The first part of the puzzle was solved.

Now if she just kept compartmentalizing, just kept facing one little thing at a time, she could do this. _Baby steps._ She had let Cole back her into a corner on more than one occasion. No more. She was going to be a player in this game for once.

*     *    *

She could feel his breath on her neck as he followed closely behind her through the darkened house. His fingernails bit into her shoulder, steering her toward the kitchen. Greta’s feet tread heavy on the carpet as he guided her along. Releasing her, he sat down at the table, eyes remaining sharply on her as she backed around the counter, trying to put some distance between them.

“Why don’t you start preparing dinner Greta?” his tone was low, yet almost bordering on conversational.  “What about my surprise?” She asked, voice carefully controlled.

“Later.”

Something was very wrong.

His stare left no room for argument. Nodding mechanically, Greta set about preparing dinner. Chicken soup (Sandy’s special recipe), because the meal had always helped to calm her nerves. And boy did she have nerves. Being out of the cellar had helped to clear her head, but the experience had left her feeling wired. Time passed and as the warm scent of broth began to fill the room, his gaze drifted from her, releasing the tension in the back of her neck. Not once did Greta turn and face him, preferring to bury herself in her work. With dinner bubbling away and not much else to do for now, Greta leaned against the stove, her back still to him.

A sickening idea was beginning to take root in her head.

It was probably a terrible, horrible idea… but she had to admit, it had some merit. Time to even the playing field a little.

Turning, Greta set about putting out the plates and silverware as normally as possible, eyes firmly on the task at hand. But as she came to stand by Brahms’ left shoulder, she bent down, leaning ever so slightly against his frame. As she placed his silverware, her arms encircled him, brushing softly against his own. Her breath ghosted his ear. The moment held...

And then she was gone, off, back across the kitchen gathering glasses down from the cupboard. As if a spark hadn’t just passed between them.  

She could feel his eyes.

She didn’t turn.

Neither mentioned her sudden change of behavior and the only sounds in the room continued to be the hiss and spit of the pot, the tick of the timer on the stove. She touched him again. And again. Brief brushes barely enough to matter, yet enough to leave a mark.

His eyes burned into her back.

She refused to meet them.

Dinner ready, Greta sat to his right and served them both, inhaling the deep aroma as she leaned over the pot. For a moment, she forgot where she was, who she was with. She was back at home with Sandy, hot bowls of soup in hand and a romcom on the tv. Feeling emboldened by this strange change in the game, with both hands, Greta passed Brahms his bowl. Her fingers connecting with the steady pulse in his wrist and sliding across his palm. She held them there. Glanced up, met his eyes.

It all happened very fast.

Brahms slammed the bowl down with one hand and clutched her throat with the other, dragging her aside, she stumbled back as he pressed her against the wall. Body flush against her, she could feel every solid inch of him. Hard plains of muscle pushing in. Mask less than an inch from her face, he breathed against her. Caged by him, Greta remained in control, but it was a struggle. Licking his lips behind the masked, he hissed “Do you enjoy toying with me Greta?” His hand tightened around her neck as the other came up to caress her cheek. “Br-Brahms…” she rasped. “I wasn’t…”   Bringing it down to cup her chin, he leaned impossibly closer, their noses brushing. “You shouldn’t make promises you _can’t keep_.”  

Fingers shaking as she brought them up, Greta drew them down his mask.

“Please…”

He loosened his grip.

“I wasn’t, I was just…” she swallowed. “I feel connected to you. I don’t know why but I- but I do. I wanted to see…” eyes flicking down then back up, she met his stare head on. “I wanted to see if it ran skin deep.” _Please take the bait…_

Hesitantly, she leaned up on her tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to his mask.

Neither moved for a moment, caught by her actions.

His hand moved from her chin, flipping the light switch a foot from her elbow and casting them in darkness. Before she could ask what was happening his lips landed hard on hers. His real, actual flesh and blood _lips_. Greta gasped into the kiss and he took advantage, possessing her mouth with a groan. Stunned by how strongly he’d taken the bait, it took Greta a minute to respond. She’d done this with Cole time and again, a distraction to put him in a good mood and her in a more favorable light. She had never enjoyed it. It had been a survival tactic, one she’d thought to implement on Brahms, maybe win some trust.

But this… _this…_ she hadn’t expected _this._

A thrill ran up her spine as she started to kiss back, hands clutching his biceps like a lifeline. She couldn’t deny it, the truth in her words. They did have a connection, a powerful one. She could feel it in the way her body lit up in equal parts fear and exhilaration. She felt dangerous.

But Greta knew she couldn’t give in, no matter how tempted she was. She had to think of Malcolm. She couldn’t stay here.

After a while Brahms pulled back for air and, leaning his forehead against hers, he chuckled. “I know what you’re doing.” he whispered. She could feel the burn scars on his skin where they were touching. “What?” she huffed, trying to catch her breath. “You think I don’t, but I do.” He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. She felt him smile darkly. Squinting at him in the dark, she tried to pull back and gasped as he suddenly gripped her tight between her legs. “You’re not ready yet.” Squeezing, he pulled back as quickly as he’d come, releasing her. “But you will be.”

And then the lights we’re back on, blinding in their intensity. Brahms walked back calmly and reclaimed his seat, mask once again firmly in place.

Greta stood there, back to the wall, staring after him.

Glancing at her, he tilted his head.

“Eat up.” She really wished he’d stop using that fucking voice.

“It’s almost time for your surprise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please Review! Questions, comments and constructive criticism are always welcome! Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the excessively long delay, I'm the grand master of procrastination and got completely sidetracked by a oneshot I was writing. I'll try to be a little more timely next update!

The light of the lantern bathed the earth in an eerie glow as they made their way down the drive. They had lost sight of the house a while ago, leaving them surrounded by nothing but trees. Still unnerved by her latest adventure in the dark, Greta kept as close to Brahms’ back as she dared without touching him. She kept her arms wrapped tight around herself, fiercely rubbing them up and down to keep warm in the nighttime chill. The air felt frigid and hung damp around them as they ventured through the gloom. She should have grabbed a coat when she’d had the chance but she’d been too keyed up after their encounter in the kitchen to think that far ahead.

Veering suddenly off to the right and down into the underbrush, Greta wondered where the hell they were really going before she caught sight of what Brahms was following. She could just barely make out the crush of tire tracks in the leaves.

Ah yes, their guests.

A hellish anticipation began to build in her chest as Greta couldn’t help by imagine what they would find. Flashes of Cole’s skull peeking out from beyond skin flitted across her vision, and she had to blink quickly to dispel the memory.

They trudged on in a charged silence that neither seemed quite willing to break. After a good twenty minutes, Greta was surprised when she collided suddenly with Brahms’ back. Stepping swiftly away, she peered around his shoulder to see where their journey had landed them.

Sitting not thirty feet before them, shining in the dull light of the lantern, was a car. As he glanced down over his shoulder at her, Greta didn’t have to be touching him to know that Brahms was thrumming with pent up energy. She could feel it from where she was standing. Her captor was excited.

Whatever this was, it couldn’t be good.

Reaching out and taking her by the shoulder, Brahms pulled her around in front of him and marched her forward, not stopping until they came to stand by the trunk. His hand squeezed her for a moment before finally releasing her. Stepping back but still managing to loom despite the distance, he silently held out a key.

Greta didn’t hesitate as she took it from him and turned to the trunk. Bracing for whatever she might find, she unlocked it and hoisted the top up.

A man not much older than herself stared up at them, fear and indignation burning in his eyes. His hands were bound tight enough to bruise behind his back, and his feet had received similar treatment. His clothes were filthy, no doubt from the scuffle that had obviously taken place and red oozed sluggishly from a cut on his forehead. The smattering of bruises blooming on across his skin was almost artistic in it’s array.

Greta couldn’t bring herself to be upset by the sight. She was too busy being both relieved and pleasantly surprised the man was even still alive. What that said about her current mindset made her cringe internally, but this was her life for the time being. She had to make due with what she could.

Ignoring their captive’s attempts to spit curses through his gag, she looked to Brahms.

“Who is he?” Might as we get straight to the point.

Setting his lantern down on the roof of the car, Brahms reached in and hauled the man bodily from the vehicle. Holding him up with ease, he gripped the man’s chin, forcing him to face Greta.

“This is Greg.”

Poor Greg was starting to sweat, beady eyes darting around looking for an escape.

“Greg has come here looking for his dear friend, Cole.” Brahms gave him a good shake, causing him to grunt.

“This _piece of filth_ came to my house, knocked on my door, and drunkenly demanded to know why Cole hasn’t ** _‘rounded up his bitch yet so we can go home’_**.”

What had started out as a calm, clipped introduction had quickly turned, each word now seething with rage.

Greta felt like the wind had been stolen from her sails. She knew who Greg was, Cole’s good buddy from the garage. They drank together, although she’d often suspected they got up to much more than that. She’d never met him in person though. Cole hadn’t liked to have people at the house. Especially not after… well, _after_. He’d barely even tolerated Sandy’s brief visits.

Brahms jerked Greg around, throwing him roughly to the ground and kicking his prey savagely in the ribs as he attempted to squirm away. Greg’s cries of pain and protest rang out starkly from behind his gag as he twisted and withered in the leaves, trying to find some way to shield himself. The sharp crack of a rib breaking jarred Greta from her shock and she lunged forward grabbing at Brahms arm in desperation.

“Brahms stop, stop!”

He stilled, fixing his gaze with her own.

“You have a decision to make Greta.”

A kitchen knife gleamed in the lamp light as he untucked it with his free hand from the back of his belt, drawing it forward from beneath his shirt.

_“Either I kill him slow, or you kill him quick.”_

*    *    *

Greta watched blearily from the front seat, hunched in on herself as Brahms dug a hole for the body. She should feel distraught, traumatized, _something._ But all she could muster up was a sort of dull relief.

The sun’s rays were just starting to peak in the distance, basking her in shades of warmth. Her whole evening had been surreal.

Raising her right hand to the light, Greta turned it slowly, watching as the blood continued to dry. It was starting to itch but she made no move to scratch it. She found herself fascinated by how it reflected in the light. Light in some places and darker in others, especially under her nails. She continued on in her quiet inspection for some time, brought out of her musings by the sound of Brahms calling to her.

“Greta?”

She hummed softly, lifting her head to look up at him.

His eyes looked strange through the mask, an emotion in them she couldn’t decipher. Nodding to himself he came forward and invaded her space, reaching past her for the keys off the dash. She watched him impassively. He tucked them into his pocket.

“What about the car?” she asked suddenly.

“I’ll take care of it later.” Turning away again he strode back off into the trees.

“Follow me.”

She did, through the woods and all the way back to the house. Greta made a slow, meandering line for the backdoor, thinking only of going to her room and finally getting some rest. Instead he caught her, taking her by the arm far more gently than he ever had before. He lead her around the side of the house and over to the spigot, the hose detached and resting coiled at their feet. Turning it on he crowded up behind her and reaching around, took both her hands in his own and began to wash them rhythmically.

The left cheek of his mask pressed against her hair as he spoke.

“You did very good my Greta.”

The water was freezing cold, a shock against her flesh, jarring her.

“Very, very good. I know it was hard for you but it needed to be done. He was nothing, do you understand? _Nothing._ He wanted to hurt you but you didn’t let him. That was good. No one will ever hurt you again.”

Shutting off the spigot, he wrapped her in his embrace. Greta shivered, the first real inkling of feelings sliding into her limbs. A sense of anticipation, inevitability, and dread.

“Soon you’ll be ready.” he breathed, tightening his grip.

“Soon, I’m going to take care of you.”


	7. Chapter 7

The rest of the day passed in a dull blur.

Brahms had left her alone not long after he'd finished washing her hands. He didn't give any explanation for his departure, he simply turned and strolled off around the corner of the house. She stood there for a few minutes, shivering slightly in the early morning breeze, waiting. She wasn't overly bothered when she finally realized he wasn't coming back. Instead she just went back into the house.

Now, lying curled up on her side along the floor of her room, she watched as a fly buzzed animatedly against the nearest window. The buzzing noises it made grew increasingly more frantic as the minutes ticked by, the tiny bug now slamming itself repeatedly against the glass, desperate for something to give.

She could relate.

After a while, the little creature began to grasp the reality of it's fate. Ceasing it's incessant buzzing, it drifted down to settle despondently along the window track. It didn't move much after that.

Rolling over onto her back, Greta stretched herself out like a cat, feeling each lump and ache from her trip to the cellar pulse with the movement. She hadn't bothered to look in a mirror yet but she was sure she looked a fright, banged up as she was. Hadn't really bothered to do much at all after she'd come in.

Going straight up to her room, as soon as the door had been thoroughly secured, she'd sunk right down onto the floorboards. It had seemed as good a place as any to contemplate the murder she'd just committed. Maybe even the best place, considering.

Greta could still vividly feel the knife in her hand, as if she'd never put it down. If she glanced up now, she almost believed it would still be there, clenched bloodily in her palm.

The blood...

There had been so much blood.

She had never considered how messy slicing a man's throat could be. How quickly the spray could soak into your clothes. How warm the drops would feel against her skin.

No she'd never considered that.

Greta thought back on all this with a sort of detached frame of mind. Even though she remembered the details of last night's events quite readily, it was from an outer point of view. As if some other poor soul had been brought out into the woods late at night to participate in the act of slaughtering a guilty stranger. Like watching a movie in 3D.

What was probably the most startling about all this was her lack of guilt.

She'd expected the guilt. Not... whatever this was.

The hours continued to tick by as Greta lay there quietly, slowly feeling more, not peaceful per se, but accepting of her actions. 

She had done the right thing. Any other fate Brahms might have intended for Greg would have been far worse. There would have been no escape. Only pain.

She had done the right thing.

***   *   ***

 The next three days carried on in the same vain as the last, a haze of contemplation and quiet.

Brahms, for the most part, left her to her own devices. Although he made no move to conceal his presence from her, he certainly wasn't very active in seeking her out. He was giving her space, she knew. Letting her come to terms with the reality of her actions.

Greta didn't do very much with herself in that time. Finally showering, she scrubbed the remaining grime off and luxuriated in a change of clothes. She ate food. She slept late. She read books, locked away in her room.

She visited Malcolm.

While she didn't dare try and find the entrance to the hole he'd found himself in, she did what she could. She kept him company. Brahms was feeding him apparently, a fact which Malcolm had shared, finding it darkly amusing.

"The kept boy has now become the bloody keeper. What a switch." he'd told her sardonically one evening.

Greta couldn't help but disagree. Brahms had never been kept, not even while he'd been 'alive'. No, he'd been worshipped. A mischievous god attended to by the most faithful of disciples. His own dear parents and eventually, her.

***   *   ***

 Day four came, and with it, some fresh activity.

Greta stood silently beside the banister, listening intently as the harsh tones of the record Brahms was playing rose up from the parlor below. Inching her way down the staircase, she came to pause just beside the open doorway. There was no sign of movement within the room, hadn't been for quite some time, but she knew he was still in there. She could feel it. Feel him.

Peering slowly around the doorway, Greta stared.

Brahms sat cross-legged calmly in the center of the carpet, an old box of papers open and spread out before him. His masked gaze lifted to her as she stepped hesitantly into the room. After a moment, he looked back down at what he was doing, seemingly dismissing her for the time being. Taking this as the closest thing to an invitation she was going to get, Greta came forward and quietly sat down, folding herself up on the couch across from him. The sudden change in height difference wasn't lost on her. If anything, the elevation bolstered her confidence.

He could be reasonable. At least, as reasonable as could be expected from a murderer hiding out in his own attic. If she were to tell him what was on her mind, he would listen. How he would react to what she had to say was still up in the air, but it was worth the risk. All she had to do now was open her mouth.

"Brahms." He didn't look up from the papers in his hands, but she could feel his attention shift fully onto her. Deciding to just take the plunge and hope for the best, Greta went for it. "I want to talk to you about Malcolm."

All movement stopped abruptly, but he still didn't look up at her. Greta took this as a good sign, forging on. "You haven't killed him, and you've been taking care of him. Sort of. So you clearly plan to keep him around a while. Why?"

His fingers fidgeted over the corner of one of the papers he held, crinkling it in his repetition. "He's... alive because of you." he actually tripped a little over his words, surprising Greta. "You won't... accept it, if I kill him." _Accept me,_ went unspoken between them. 

"Oh." That was much more straightforward of an answer than she'd been expecting. Greta felt a lot better now about the direction this conversation was taking. _Reasonable,_ she reminded herself. "Brahms I want to make you a deal."

Any previous hesitation on his part went out the window at her words. She could practically _feel_ the smug smile curving his lips under the mask. "And what, my lovely little Greta, would this deal entail?" He wasn't entirely sure what she wanted, but he knew it was going to be good for him. For them.

"Bring Malcolm upstairs. Give him a room. Lock him up as much as you want but- hell, give him access to _a bathroom_ , Brahms. _He's been wallowing_ _in his own filth._ It's... quite frankly, it's gross." Greta licked her lips, mouth suddenly feeling dry.

"Tell me why I would do this." _What's in it for me?_

All or nothing, she thought. "Do this for me... and I'll sleep in your bed with you one night a week. But _only_ sleep. No sex." She didn't want to give him the wrong idea. 

He made a show of considering her offer, but she could already see the victory in his eyes. "Two nights a week." he purred, "You will come to me willingly two nights a week, and you will not leave me until morning. For the second night, you may spend an hour each day with the grocery boy." His words were practically dripping contempt toward the end.

She started to protest, "Two hou-" but he cut her off. "One hour."

_"Two hours-"_

**_"Half an hour."_** His tone was the sharpest she'd ever heard it.

Better not push her luck too much. _"Fine._ One hour."

Intent on storming out for once, Greta paused abruptly as she reached the doorway. "What about Malcolm?"

Brahms had already returned to his sorting, once again completely at ease. As if they hadn't just made a life changing agreement. "Don't concern yourself with him dear Greta. I'll do my part."

Taking his word for it, she turned to leave but stopped again as he called out to her. "Oh, and Greta?"

"Yes?" Apprehension began to pool in her gut as the reality of what she'd just agreed to set in.

"Tomorrow night. _Don't make me wait."_

**Author's Note:**

> Please Review! Questions, comments and constructive criticism are always welcome! Thanks for reading!  
> Stop by my [Tumblr](http://trubie74.tumblr.com/) and say hello!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Give Me Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7251199) by [RivetingOmega (Demonwomb)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demonwomb/pseuds/RivetingOmega)




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